Light Up The Sky
by aracelymercerchandler
Summary: Severus Snape has promised "Miss Mercer-Chandler" one hell of a night. He is, of course, a man of his word. Severus SnapexOC oneshot OOC Severus Snape


The final week of term is long, hot and languorous. Babette and I fan ourselves down at the lake, gossiping idly about the sensational news of Professor Lupin turning out to be a werewolf. I liked the guy and feel it's a bit harsh he has to leave; after all, he seemed to hold it together pretty well for a man who howls at the moon on a monthly basis.

Other than this, and observing a midsummer ferment of seventh-year sexual liaisons, my mind is stuck like a scratched 45``on my forthcoming encounter with Snape. Just can't get out of that groove. But would I want to? Oooooh no.

I itch to tell somebody, but it's probably best that I can't. I can imagine the horror and disapproval that would greet the news. 'But that's so unromantic!', as if a round of tonsil-hockey and a fumble in the dark with a clueless Hufflepuff is somehow the epitome of erotic awakening.

Instead I sit back on my sore bum and run through everything he has ever said or done, over and over again, until it is like a madness, a monomania. He does not do anything as obvious as look at me more often in passing, but when he does, I feel as if the latent smoulder in his eye could pin me against the wall and fix me there. I am a marked woman. He will mark me.

The Leavers Party takes place outside on a balmy July night. I am taut with anticipation and deliberately turn down the paper cups of inevitably-spiked punch that are doing the rounds. Music is charmed into the air and the overhyped eighteen year olds of Hogwarts thrash and sway to a selection of disco classics. Babette and I are throwing some shapes to 'Love to Love You, Baby' when Snape returns from a round of rosebush-blasting. Entirely pointless; the House Cup was presented earlier today, so any deducted points won't make a difference. I think he just does it for pleasure, though.

Making out his sinister silhouette from the corner of my eye, I shimmy my shoulders as enticingly as I know how and rotate my hips, er, sensually, I think. My hair is loose and for once I am wearing a little make-up; just lipgloss and some shimmery stuff on my eyelids. Halterneck dress, scarlet with black flower print, silk, nicely fitted. Lots of interest from mainly Slytherin boys who have never given me a second glance before. Bad luck, fellas, only real men need apply here. One real man. That one over there…watching me…arms folded….brow furrowed…striding away now.

It's nearly midnight.

"I'm going in, Babs."

"Oh, I'll come with you."

"No, you stay for another. I need to…I might have a bath. I feel a bit…hot."

"Oh, OK. See you." She is nicely squiffy and will probably end up lying under a bush with that hairy Gryffindor she's had her eye on all year.

Professor Flitwick stops me and hugs my knees goodbye as I scurry away towards the castle. Bless. I'll miss him. I am a woman on a mission now, though, and nothing will divert me from my aim. Operation Cherry Pop. I scan the lobby for spies and, seeing none, slip down the stairs to the dungeons. Even on a firefly-laden summer night, it is cold and dank down here; two torches burn minimally on the wall and when I push the classroom door open I have to stand there for a minute or two, adjusting my eyes to the gloom. I tiptoe down to the office door. It is open, but Snape is not in there. I cast around for a little while until I suddenly notice an opening in the far wall, beyond which a greenish light glows. I had no idea there was a door there – well, there wasn't – and I go over to take a look.

The greenish light is from candles further inside that beyondness, flickering against green and silver wall hangings. I arrive at this maw of mystery, plucking up the courage to step inside, but while I am thus plucking I feel long fingers wrap around my wrist and tug me over the threshold. The opening slides shut behind me and I am looking up at Professor Severus Snape. He is not wearing his robes, or even his jacket, just a high-necked white lawn cotton shirt and black trousers; his black eyes are cloudy as he looks down at me, the unexpectedly long lashes shadowing his pale skin.

"So you were serious," he says softly, brushing a hand down my cheek and tilting my face up until it meets his and…he kisses me. Just an introduction, but as a statement of intent it does a fine job – authoritative with a lingering promise of passion to come. Is now a good time to stop being so over-analytical? Perhaps. I am quite scared and over-analysing calms me down.

He leads me by the hand over to a velvet-upholstered chaise longue in the middle of a rather austere but tasteful room – his living quarters – and sets me down on his lap, gathering me tightly against his chest and unleashing the very, very wicked older brother of that first kiss on my helpless lips. I am held inescapably in place by arms that contain just the right hint of steeliness; one hand is anchored in my hair, keeping my face at the required angle for his mouth to plunder me. Cor. I had always been a little ambivalent about kissing, thinking that surely it would be wet and sloppy and that the very idea of somebody's tongue in my mouth was beyond disgusting – but this is, let's say, a pleasant surprise. His lips are firm but gentle at first, then he ups the ante to a bit of nipping at my lower lip and I amaze myself by opening my mouth to let his tongue in willingly and it is just…really sexy! Gods! I am being taken possession of; taken prisoner, and I want it to go on and on forever, my desire for him swelling up and unfolding like an exotic bloom. I meet his tongue with mine and this push-me-pull-you duel continues for sweet minutes; I clutch at his hair and press myself into him as far as I can. He is becoming uncomfortable to sit on, though, unmistakable rock hardness bruising my thigh.

He releases my mouth with a smoochy flourish, holding me in place as he looks into my eyes with fierce intent. "Are you absolutely sure you want to do this, Miss Branson?"

"If I wasn't before, I am now," I breathe, chest heaving in an effort to recover from all that kissing. "And I think you can drop the 'Miss Branson' in the circumstances. My name's Clara."

"Taking Clara," he says musingly, running a finger along my swollen lips. "Are you afraid?"

"No," I lie.

"You should be." Eek! "You have no control over this situation; you are entirely in my hands. That would frighten most people."

"I'm not most people."

"Clearly."

He pulls me to my feet and I stand facing him, as far as I can with him being a good head taller than I am.

"Let's get a good look at you then, shall we?" He reaches behind my neck and unties the halter bow there. The material flaps down, exposing my breasts, since I didn't bother with a bra tonight. Or knickers, as he'll soon find out. I feel self-conscious and I flush, unable to meet his eyes. He is tracing a line down from my jaw through neck, shoulders, collarbone, ending up with two handfuls of breast, stroking shiveringly over the nipples.

"Sorry there isn't more," I quip nervously and he whips his head up to frown at me, putting a finger to my lips.

"Shh," he commands. He spins me round to undo the laced back of the garment and watches it drop to the floor. "Clara!" he admonishes, and I want to purr at the sound of my name on his lips. "Wanton little trollop." I giggle as he deals a light slap to each of my bare buttocks. "You need this quite badly, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, Sir," I sigh, and he turns me back around, stepping away to take in my nude form from head to toe. He appraises me for long minutes and I feel burningly like O, professionally inspected as if I am horseflesh. But Snape takes pity on me and beckons me over, gathering me into his arms and murmuring, "Perfect," into my hair. His mouth moves down and he nips at my earlobe, my neck, my shoulder, licking and sucking with increasing force until I groan with pleasure. I feel my feet leave the floor and I am slung over his shoulder, crossing the room and entering an inner sanctum. Yikes, the bedroom. I am sent sprawling down on my back on his slippery dark green bedspread; my hair fans out behind me, my limbs are flung crosswise and Snape is looking down at me with terrifying absorption, his eyes roaming my length and breadth hungrily. It seems rather unfair that he is still clothed but he is not about to attend to that yet.

He kneels forward on to the bed and braces his long, lean length over me, hair brushing against my face before he dives in for a loosening kiss. He makes a serpentine journey down my body, lips and fingers dancing across my skin, causing my nipples to harden almost painfully and my juices to flow with abandon. I am pure animal and I need to be taken. He notes my arousal and drawls, "Dear, dear, Clara, we will have to deal with this," , scrambling down between my thighs and fingering the gushing core with curious wonderment. I spread my legs eagerly wider and hope he makes use of the invitation. Door's open, Professor, do come in. I've been expecting you. He makes the most of my hospitality, bringing all of his fingers to the party at first, making themselves at home with casual ease. Their skilled pressure against my clitoris is deliciously inescapable, and when he adds a two-fingered probe to my virginal entrance I stop trying to fight it and give in to a powerful wave of orgasm, hearing his voice from afar crooning, "Yes, Clara, that's it, that's what you need, good girl," as if I have just brewed a perfect Draught of Living Death. Stars circle my head for a while and my legs flop down on the Slytherin satin, but he is far from finished.

"That was just an aperitif," he says darkly, bringing his head down until it hovers above my crotch. "Now for a little amuse-bouche." What an elegant man, I think vaguely, before my thoughts are rudely interrupted by the continuing onslaught of his fingers plus the astonishingly, cruelly heavenly sensation of his tongue against my clit. He uses the tip of it to circle the area until I yelp with need, bucking myself against his face to underline the point I am making. He gives a low, growly laugh and laps greedily at the button, alternating his action with deep kisses and surprising little sucks. I have never imagined such a level of stimulation could exist and I am thrashing uncontrollably when the conjunction of long fingers and teasing tongue send me over the edge again, howling, "Oh, pleeeeeeaaaaaaase, Sir," in a way he finds gratifying. Removing himself from my wetness, he kneels up, tossing stray hairs from his face and giving me a severe schoolmasterish look. My toes curl with lust.

"I think you are ready for me, Clara," he states, circling the opening in question with a couple of fingers, then prodding it scientifically. "But before I begin in earnest, I want to make sure a couple of things are understood." Merlin's wand, what a time for speechmaking! I roll my eyes and he gives a thigh a light smack. "Respect, Clara," he warns. "I want your assurance that you will never speak of this to anybody. Secondly, I want to make it clear that this is never to be repeated. There is no question of an ongoing relationship, and if you aren't able to accept that, then you should leave now. There will be no contact between us after tonight. Do you understand me, Clara?" I nod. Arrogant swine; as if he thinks I'm going to stalk him or something. My feelings of offence are swiftly pushed out of my head by what happens next, though.

"Good," he says. "Then prepare to be deflowered." And, with a wave of his wand, he is naked. I prop myself up on my elbows, eyes popping, my brain registering two salient thoughts.

One: Ye Gods, the Dark Mark! It was all true!  
Two: Is that a normal size?

Snape regards my consternation with a self-satisfied air. In the manner of a man who has repeated the same words many times, he drawls, "Yes, it's a Dark Mark, and, yes, I am somewhat larger than average. Now can we continue? Lie back down, Clara."

What have I let myself in for?

I replace my head on the bedspread and watch as he takes that enormous monster in one hand and guides it over to my vulnerable sex. He rubs the tip of it up and down and around my clit, resensitising the area that had numbed slightly after two bodice-ripping climaxes. Then he rests it against the entrance of my narrow passage, where it feels conspicuously huge and impossible to accommodate. A frisson of panic rushes through me and I whimper quietly, my muscles tensing against penetration.

"Don't fight it, Clara," he murmurs, "it will be less painful if you relax and open yourself up for me."

"But you're too big," I protest weakly.

"No I'm not; you will see that you can take all of this. There will be some initial discomfort but that's the nature of the beast." Dismissing my anxieties, he rotates the head of his weapon infinitesimally and edges it very slightly into me. This has to be physically impossible, but I screw up my eyes and concentrate on keeping calm. Very slowly but inexorably, I feel my passage stretch and expand to take his width; the sense of invasion is all-consuming as he advances one, two, three inches before coming to a dead end. I bite my lip. This is it.

"Now this will hurt to begin with, but you can get past the pain. I promise you, it will be worth it." He leans forward, bracing his body over mine, elbows either side of my chest and gives me a reassuring kiss. His mouth is still covering mine when I feel a sudden searing surge forward, causing me to yelp into his lungs and thrash around under him in an effort to throw him off. He finds my wrists in an instant and pins them down to the bed, stilling himself inside me while I recover from the shock and pain and get used to the feeling of full penetration. The aching soreness recedes a little and my struggles slow and then stop. "That's it, Clara, take it all," he encourages, finally sheathed to the hilt so that I feel utterly impaled. I can't imagine that this is going to be pleasurable; it just feels so different. And it still hurts quite a lot. I keep thinking that this is like invasive surgery, imagining I'm on an operating table and Snape is the man in the white coat and latex gloves.

Snape spends a long time rocking back and forth on top of me, making little in-and-out movements, just an inch or so at a time. Crammed and overstuffed as I feel, his manoeuvres have the effect of spreading the walls of my tunnel so that a lubricated smoothness eases the chafing. Pain is second on the bill now, after interesting sensation. Snape carries on, but begins to pull out further, adding inches to the up-and-downing, so authoritatively, so accurately, that interesting sensation gives way to the first stirrings of pleasure. At the point where he is able to almost pull out completely and then re-bury himself without encountering any resistance, I give a small moan of enjoyment. I now feel marvellously full; the slick slide of his tool engenders a tantalising friction and a dizzying sense of being absolutely taken, absolutely possessed. He stops, almost all the way out of me and puts his lips to my ear. "I think you want this now, don't you? You want me to take you."

"Oh, yes, I do," I moan.

"Tell me."

"Please, Sir, I want you to fuck me."

"I know you do."

"OH!" He makes one forceful driving action all the way in and then starts to thrust properly. I am guessing that he is still holding a fair bit of his potential power in reserve, keeping it at Beginner Level for me while I am adjusting to being a non-virgin. I bet he could whack my head into the wall if he wanted to though.

"Clara," he growls ferally. "So tight. So wet. So willing. I am going to make you feel every inch."

Actually, Professor, you've already achieved that objective. Ahhhh. The speed and strength build gradually; he is still holding me down, though he no longer needs to. But I like it, so don't point this out. Wanting to vacuum his length into me as far as it can go, I wrap my legs around his back and give him an angle of amazing depth for his rapid plunging. The new angle touches some remote spot inside me and I can feel a quake of enormous Richter-scale magnitude start to boil up within.

"Oh, yes, Sir, oh give it to me harder, oh gods, I can feel it, make me…." The ground starts to tremor, an awesome tarmac-ripping explosion hurtling down every nerve. It is working for Snape too, who batters frantically against my womb with a roar of completion while I wail and keen beneath him, my body twisting in delirium.

That is it. That was it. Snape collapses on top of me and I enjoy the full weight of him pressing me down, enjoy the salty damp of his skin and his hair, enjoy the laboured breathing in my ear and the rise and fall of his chest against mine. He has made me his, and part of me will always be so now, despite what he says about the impossibility of an ongoing relationship.

Too soon he withdraws from me and rolls over and off. "Well then," he says in a low voice. "You are thoroughly deflowered, Clara. Was it what you expected?"

"Oh, I didn't really expect anything," I say. "I mean, I didn't know what to expect. But that was…amazing. Just…amazing. I picked the right bloke, I think."

He smiles. Honestly! "I'm honoured," he drawls. He reaches over to the bedside table for his wand and brushes it briefly against my stomach. "Can't go getting you pregnant," he explains. "Wouldn't play well with the Board of Governors."

I guess not. I squint down my body at the tacky mess of blood and semen coating my thighs, and he takes care of that too with a quick 'Scourgify'. I feel slightly regretful to see it go; I want a reminder of this experience, even if it is only for a few minutes. I look over at Snape, who has clasped his hands behind his neck and shut his eyes, head thrust back and lips parted in a pose I find very sensual. Suddenly, the thought that I will never have him inside me again is literally unbearable. I can't just get up and go now. I want this to be a night for him to remember as well.

I lift myself up stealthily on an elbow and take the opportunity to have a good look at his cock. Even in repose it is the stuff of which legends are made. My hand reaches out to it and hovers uncertainly for long seconds, then I throw caution to the wind and wrap my fingers around it. I am noting its soft, rubbery texture and flexibility when Snape's own fingers close around my wrist, his eyes now open and looking at me warningly.

"What do you think you are doing, Miss Branson?" Oh, back to formalities again, are we?

"I just wanted to touch it," I excuse myself. "I've never touched one before. And yours is…so…enticing." I count on the fact that he is a bloke, and blokes like girls to compliment them on their equipment, even the atypical Snape.

"Be that as it may," he says softly, "I don't allow any touching without permission. You did not ask my permission."

"Sorry. But can I though?"

"I'll consider it. I need to address your transgression first though." Thrills! Result! Sex and spanking and then, fingers crossed, more sex. What more could a girl ask for? He sits up and indicates his thigh with a light tap. "Over my lap, Clara. You need to learn that your actions have consequences."

Uh, well, I think I know that, Professor, hence my being here in the first place. But I am not in a frame of mind to quibble as I place myself arse-up across his thighs, wondering what I am in for.

Nothing on the scale of previous encounters, as it happens; a dozen or so playful swats to pinken up my rear and send a rush of blood to my object of interest. As I crawl off Snape's lap I notice that his member has stiffened to a semi-tumescent state. All the better for finding my way around it then. He returns to a reclining position, arranging himself into an attitude of maximum exposure, propped up on one elbow to observe proceedings. He looks at me then nods down to his Slytherin one-eyed snake. "Be my guest," he invites lazily, a challenging glint in his eye.

I kneel between his legs and crouch down so my nose is level with his scrotum. I pick one sac up and cup it in my hand, rather reverently. "So, talk me through this, Professor," I say nervously. "What should one do with a man's, er, equipment?"

"That's the scrotum," he tells me. "The fount of all life."

"Well, fifty percent of it," I caution him. "Is there any sensation in it?"

"Yes. They will feel tighter the more aroused I am. Do they feel tight?"

"Er…I suppose. I don't really have a comparator."

"Give them a squeeze."

"Won't it hurt?" I squeeze gingerly.

"No, not unless you have a particularly vice-like grip." I squeeze a bit harder.

"Hmmm."

I abandon the area and move on to the base of his cock. I can barely fit my fingers around it; it is almost as wide as my wrist. I should mention that my wrists are quite thin, though.

"What does this feel like?"

"Good. You can hold it tighter than that; I'm not made of porcelain." I run my hand with deliberation all the way up the shaft, which is getting harder all the while, pinching and prodding as I go.

"What's this bit?"

"The frenulum; it's incredibly sensitive. Handle it with care. That's the foreskin. There, now you are at the end of your journey. Was it to your satisfaction?"

I smile wickedly. "It feels so dangerous," I comment.

"Yes," he twitches his lips back. "You wouldn't believe you'd had the entire length inside you earlier, would you?" He reaches into his bedside cabinet and retrieves a vial of something. Oil. He takes my palm and pours a couple of drops into it. "Now rub your hands together and put them on…like that…and just move them up and down…quite…yes, that's it…"

"So is this a handjob?"

"Less of the chat, Clara. Just do what you're doing."

I carry on, varying the rhythm sometimes, or trying different types of pressure. It's all a big learning curve. Remembering what he said about the frenulum, I take a moment to rub it a little. Oh, he likes that!

"Clever girl," he forces out with some effort.

"I've heard," I say with studied innocence, "that there is some procedure involving…putting it in your mouth. Is that true?"

Snape's spine stiffens almost as noticeably as his manhood.

"Suck it and see!" he hisses. So I do. It stretches my mouth quite uncomfortably and it is all I can do to keep my teeth out of the way, but Snape does not seem unduly bothered. I make a seal with my lips and work at moving them smoothly up and down the section of his length I can fit without starting to gag. I think he would probably like it a bit deeper, but I don't suppose he'd want me retching all over him, so I stick with what I can do. As a concession, I flick the tip of my tongue over his frenulum with each little bob and hold the base firmly with my slippery hand. I use my other hand to squeeze his balls, alternating from one to the other. He really likes it. The notion that I am giving him pleasure excites me; I love to hear his little moans and throaty noises as I work on him. He is as erect as he is ever going to be after about ten minutes of getting the hang of the actions, but just as I am about to try fitting it in a little further, he hauls me up and off him.

"Oh, Sir!" I exclaim in surprise.

"Don't pretend you don't want it, minx," he growls, installing me firmly on his sword and pushing my shoulders down until I am swiftly and breathtakingly filled. "Fast learner, aren't you, considering you were a virgin only about an hour ago?"

"I've always been a fast learner," I protest, not sure what he means to imply, but any offence I might take is forgotten as he plunges unforgivingly into my tight, still rather sore, channel and begins to jiggle me by the hips up and down on him. Although the shock of it stung at first, the pain soon wears off and I find that I have an interesting level of control over my movements in this position, if he will just loosen his grip on me. From a disorganised beginning, we work together to slide into a mutually satisfying rhythm. I experiment with angles, from bending so far my face is buried in his neck to sitting poker-straight as if on horseback. Snape watches me intently, making my face heat up with self-consciousness, but in another way, his unflinching gaze is incredibly erotically charged. I can see the girth of his shaft, slipping in and out with deadly accuracy. This is hard work and Snape makes sure I am not slacking, manipulating me like a poseable doll. After a long, sweaty, slow build-up, he suddenly stops and orders me to turn around 180 degrees, so I have my back to him. I am to make sure he stays inside me or there will be trouble. It is difficult but I get there, swivelling around gradually on his shaft, feeling hundreds of extra little sensations as it hits different parts of my sex.

"Oh yes," he says once I have turned around and leaned forward to maintain a comfortable angle of penetration. "Now I can see my cock ramming into you, Clara. I can watch you being taken, and I can see your delicious little arse jiggling as I pound you. I'm going to make you beg for mercy."

Eek. He sits up behind me, his hands gripping my hips so tightly I think there will be bruises tomorrow. He manouevres me forcefully up and down, finding an angle so deep I can't believe he will ever find his way out. Perhaps I will have to stay jam-packed full of his cock forever. Hmm, could be worse.

"Take it all, Clara," he grinds, banging into me with insane force, so that I am quaking all over, struggling not to buckle under the pressure and lose control of my legs. It is going to…it is about to…it IS!

I scream with the might of my explosion and Snape pulls me sharply back against him, crushing my ribcage with his forearm and yelling "You are mine!" dementedly. 'You are mine' eh? I like that.

Subsequent movement proves to be such a challenge that I have to wait, slumped forwards between Snape's bony shins, for him to slide out and back away from me before I can reorganise my limbs into some semblance of comfort.

"I think you've killed me," I inform him, falling face-first into the soft embrace of a pillow. "Add it to the list of your crimes."

"Clara," he says warningly, charming up glasses of water to cool and quench us. I drink deep then throw myself back, turning my flushed face and dreamy eyes to the canopy above.

"Seriously, though, who'd have thought the sarcastic sadist of Slytherin would be such a world-class swordsman?"

"Sarcastic sadist of Slytherin?" Snape turns his face to me and threads the fingers of one hand through mine, all the better to inflict pain if I go any further down this ill-signposted path. "Is that what you call me?"

"Mainly Ravenclaws," I tell him. "Gryffindors prefer Greasy Git, while Hufflepuffs favour Big Black Bat. Their vocabularies are less extensive and they can't focus on much beyond physical attributes."

Snape chuckles – now that's a sound I never thought I'd hear. "I see myself as harsh but fair," he says, and it's my turn to laugh. Disbelievingly.

"Harsh, yes, but fair? Harsh but blatantly nepotistic towards Slytherin House, maybe." Ouch! My wrist!

"Are you accusing me of favouritism?"

"Of course not, Sir! Though the occasion at the end of last year when you awarded Uther Redwood of Slytherin fifty points for finishing the term paper and I got sweet FA for getting the highest mark in the year…" I trail off. The man knows how to perform a Chinese Burn all right.

"Virtue is its own reward," he says severely. "Not that I'd know. You need to sleep, Clara."

"Oh! You aren't booting me out?"

"I can't send you off to wander the corridors at this time in your state."

"Shagged senseless, you mean?" I sigh.

"Quite so. I'll set an alarm for half past five; you can find your way to the dorm in partial daylight. You'd be very unlucky to be stopped. Obviously, if you are, you'll have some story to fob Filch off with?"

"Of course. I'll tell him I was attacked and pinned down by a giant snake."

"Go to sleep, Clara."

"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir. Goodnight, Sir."

"Goodnight."


End file.
